


Umbra Venandi (Shadow Hunter)

by TheLadyFrost



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Cleon, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, Leon the Private Monster Hunter, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Murder Mystery, Necromancy, Time Travel, Voodoo, aeon - Freeform, gabrielknighthomage, leonandclairelikemulderandscully, leonlikeindianajones, mindgames, weskclaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 11:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17766347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyFrost/pseuds/TheLadyFrost
Summary: All his life, the shadows have called his name. He hunts the things that hide within them. He wants so badly to feel anything but the horror that clings to every breath. She's the only thing that binds him to hope. And she's there to catch a killer...the bad news? Neither of them know if that killer is him. (AU style Claire and Leon, Cleon, Aeon, Weskclaire -mystery, murder.)





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue:

Umbra Venandi

(Shadow Hunter)

The dream is always the same.

The nightmare. The need. The anger.

It always bleeds. It always lies. It always tries to remind him he was and never would be...normal.

He tries to fight it. But he can't fight it. He can't even pretend to fight it. He just...feels it and dies with it and tries to deny it..but the mind is a master of making us the victim of our own pain.

With a putrid touch, the darkness clings to him. Tendrils, tendrils, curls of smoky death and stealing pain. He watches it creep. He watches it slide over the cobblestones and slither toward him like snakes made of oil. It touches his loafers and slips fingers up his calve.

His whole life, he's felt it there, waiting to claim him. There's no way to stop it. There's no way to slow it down. It cleaves and clings at once. It loops around his leg and over his groin. It sucks at his dick like a whore. It leeches into his guts and finds his spine and snaps it until he screams and collapses, a victim of its swirling touch.

His body lets it rise above him, a succubus, a Lilith, a liar. It fucks him while he dies, soaked in darkness and blood. It steals his soul from his open mouth. He watches the world turn red and black with rot and blood. He can only watch it rise. Something inside of him feels defeated. It's not really fear; it's more like numb acceptance. He's so tired. He's fought so long. He just wants to rest now. Just rest and give in.

There's a weeping in the distance, so soft that at first, he thinks it's merely the wind through the tree tops. But it comes again, louder this time, closer. The weeping is full of rage, of fear, of despair. And he knows that voice. He knows it.

It calls to him, crying into his blood, "Get up...get up...find me. FIND ME."

In the sucking black, he finally finds his voice, "Get the fuck off me."

The darkness quivers with denied rage.

He shakes, shakes his body, shakes his soul and the darkness recedes, hissing. It doesn't want to be denied its ultimate prize. The weeping is louder now almost as if it's just out of his sight.

He begins to run even as part of him fears he will be too late. The darkness follows, close, closer, just at his heels. He feels trapped between fear and courage. Which will save him? Which will save them both?

He stops in the middle of the street and the darkness halts, pulsing.

He opens his mouth and screams out a name.

The darkness echoes in hissing whispers.

The weeping fills his ears.

His hands are filled with blood.

And the horror of knowing he's too late.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day One**

* * *

_"Hello my son, the darkness said and I did naught but stare._

_I've brought the gift of death to you, so nurture it with care."_

* * *

His eyes popped open. But he didn't rise sweating. It took a lot more then a dream about darkness to bring the sweating on these days. He was pretty sure that he rarely even yelled out in his sleep anymore. Of course, since he slept the majority of his nights away alone, it was also hard to ask anyone.

He slid to the edge of the bed, trailing the softness of the Egyptian cotton sheet with him, the only barrier between himself and the coolness of the bedroom. He ran his hands through his hair slowly, pushing the thickness of it off his forehead and out of his eyes. It was tangled, it was just a little damp but then he'd fallen face first down on the bed right after he'd showered the night before.

He reached onto the cherry wood nightstand beside the bed, fumbling in the twilit dark for his cigarettes and lighter. He wasn't sure when he'd taken up smoking, it seemed like he'd been doing it since birth. The thumb wheel hissed as he spun it, the tiny orange flame casting the smallest of lights on his hand, on his face.

It was a good face, handsome really, with a strong jaw and just a suggestion of a cleft in the chin. The cheekbones were high and sharp above the softly hallowed cheeks and the straight, sharp blade of his nose. His eyes were blue, a good solid blue the color of the cloudless sky or the river undisturbed in summer. The face was regal, almost arrogant in its beauty and topped by thick, shiny crop of dark blonde hair that had a tendency to curl a little over his ears and forehead in the heat.

He inhaled sharply, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs and held it as his mind wandered. It didn't take a genius to figure out that something was going to happen. These dreams were always prophetic in some way. The hard part was figuring out if it was something he was supposed to stop or something that had already happened that he was supposed to uncover.

He slid his hand farther along the nightstand until it closed over the warmth of solid metal. His baby: his Desert Eagle. He traced the lines with his fingers, felt the smoothness of the grip. A moment of sheer comfort slid over his soul. It always helped relax him; somehow it was as if he knew there was power in it, strength.

He crushed the cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray on the nightstand and stood up slowly. The sheet fell away like water and he padded naked through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

A flick of his fingers had the harshness of the over head light spilling down onto his face. He squinted and his eyes and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked…stark. It was the only word he could think of to describe himself. There were dark circles under his eyes and an underlying paleness to his skin that managed to make him look pasty.

He certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests looking like this.

But, it wasn't the first or the last time he'd go without sleep. It seemed to be in his lot in life to lose sleep.

He practically fell into the shower. The stinging heat of the water felt like nirvana. He thrust his face into the spray and tried to finish waking up.

He wasn't entirely sure he was ready for another trip down evil lane. Didn't a man deserve a break once in awhile? It had been less than three months since his last case. He spent the better part of eight months tracking down what had turned out to be nothing more than rabid dogs that had been attacking the smaller animals in a suburban area. So, he'd saved the day for every spoiled little fluff ball mutt and cat in the area. All hail the conquering hero.

He wasn't sure he could take another bum case like that. He wasn't Ace Ventura for Christ's sake.

He slid out of the water, slipped a towel around his waist and was in the kitchen making coffee when the door bell rang.

A quick glance at the clock on the stove told him it was just shy of five a.m. He wasn't sure who would be paying a social call at this time in the morning.

He hoped to god it wasn't Ryman. He wasn't up to the daily trials of the dumb and hopeless today. As much as he loved his erstwhile, candy bar loving friend, he was just too damn tired to deal with it.

He walked from the kitchen, down the tiny hallway toward the door, careful not to trip over discarded shoes or magazines as he went.

As far as houses went, his wasn't a winner. It was a moderately sized (small) beach front condo (shack) with a slanted, peeling roof, two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen that doubled as a wash room and a living room that was probably about half the size of a sardine can.

He absolutely loved it.

It wasn't that he couldn't afford better. His family had plenty of money. He was a Kennedy, after all. And he made ridiculous amounts of money doing what he did. It turned out being the right hand of god had its monetary advantages as well as social ones.

So, he could have probably been living rather comfortably in a modest sized mansion in the Garden District or a penthouse apartment in the Vieux Carre (French Quarter to the layman) but he liked this shack that sat a few feet away from the Gulf of Mexico and that smelled like the bayou and tasted like the salt of the sea.

At night, when the humid air was just shy of cool and the willows that slid their branches through the murkiness of the shore line were whispering secrets to the night, it was easy to pretend nothing had ever changed for himself. That he was just a simple man with nothing more then no money and an uncertain future.

The house was his haven. And, like the havens of all men, often quite dirty. His clothes went unwashed until he was down to the very last threads he possessed, he had magazines from a year ago stacked up on the small oak table in the living room and stuffed under the couch; shoes missing mates were spread from kitchen to bedroom like a line of rejected people at the unemployment office. He often tripped upon entering and tripped upon leaving but it was perfect. Really perfect.

He got to the front door without too much hassle and pulled open the front door without looking through the peep hole. He seldom did. If someone was going to shoot him in the face when the door opened, so be it. At least he wouldn't have to have his last moments filled with fear.

The heat of the morning washed through the door; still cool enough that it tickled his skin but warm enough that his damp hair would no doubt begin to curl before he shut the door again.

He had a moment of surprise when he saw who was standing on his sagging porch, managing to look pristine even in the muggy morning heat.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman waiting on his door step at the crack of dawn in the morning. And none of them that he could remember had ever managed to look so regal while doing so. Most of them consisted of box dyed hair, outrageous tattoos and cleavage that went down to their waist.

The woman staring back at him was anything but trashy.

She wasn't very tall. If he had to hazard a guess he'd put her at five foot two tops and she was built slim through the hips and stomach. Although there was no hiding the generousness of her chest even under the serviceable navy blue of her suit jacket and damned if she wasn't wearing a knee length navy skirt and high heels even out here in the middle of the bayou. He didn't want to imagine what it was like to slug through foot deep areas of swamp in three inch heels.

Although admittedly, his property was closer to beach in most areas then swamp.

Her hair, soft and red, was pulled tightly back from her face into a harsh knot at the base of her neck. Without the hair surrounding it, the face was beautiful. He figured there was maybe a hundred women in the whole world that could go without make up, with their hair slicked back like a man and still manage to be beautiful.

She had high cheekbones and a mouth that was just a little wide and little bottom heavy. Her eyes were hidden behind reflective lenses in, what he figured would be about six hundred dollar, sunglasses. There was a dusting of freckles over her narrow nose.

He was suddenly very conscious about the fact that he was standing in the door way in a faded blue bath towel. But, he was also very careful not to let her see that.

She said, in a voice that soft and had an accent that he found hard to place, "Mr. Kennedy?"

When he nodded, she pulled back one side of the navy jacket and brought his attention to the suggestion of the shoulder holster and the shiny gold shield attached to belt of her skirt.

He had another one of his classic moments of blankness before it registered. Then he said, softly, "Shit." and pushed one hand against the door frame, the other going up to rub at his forehead and the headache threatening to grow behind his eyes.

The woman smiled, cajoling and understanding at the same time and a small dimple flashed to right side of her mouth. "Sorry to disturb you at this time in the morning, Mr. Kennedy but I'm Special Agent Redfield. Do you mind if I come in for a minute? I just have some questions."

Leon Kennedy sighed and stepped back from the door. "Do I get to ask what this is about?"

Redfield stepped over the threshold. "I'd be shocked if you didn't."

Leon nodded and started through the living room. "I've got coffee on. You want some?"

"Sure. That would be great." She followed him down the hallway, careful to avoid tragedy by stepping over shoes.

Leon moved easily, pouring coffee into two clean mugs and placing one on the small island in the middle of the kitchen. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around what the feds might want with him when Redfield cleared her throat and said, in a completely blank voice.

"I can wait a few minutes if you'd like to…put something on."

Leon looked up at her face and saw the light blush that had crept over her cheeks. He'd forgotten he was in just a towel but it seemed that she hadn't.

He nodded absently and said, "Sure. I'll be right back, just make yourself comfortable."

He wandered into the bedroom and scrounged around until he found a pair of clean underwear, his faded jeans from the night before and ribbed tank top that usually served as an undershirt.

Barefoot, he padded back into the kitchen and found that Agent Redfield had made her way out of the kitchen, through the sliding door, and out onto the screened back porch.

Leon picked up his mug of coffee and followed, sliding the door closed at his back.

She turned as she heard him and she'd taken off her sunglasses.

He'd been wrong, her eyes weren't brown, they were blue. Almost startlingly, pale blue. The only words that came to mind were arctic sky. The eyes themselves were almond shaped and just slightly tilted at the ends and heavily lashed. Exotic. They were exotic. Like a cat.

Shaking himself mentally, Leon stepped up to lean against the railing and face her.

He said, "What can I do for you anyway?"

He figured that he probably wasn't imagining her face was still a little flushed. But it could have been from the heat. He didn't think so, but it could have been.

She cleared her throat once and skimmed her hand over her hair, a nervous gesture. Yeah, it wasn't the heat. Or at least not the kind that comes from the bayou.

"How much land do you own, Mr. Kennedy?"

"It's Leon."

She just looked at him.

Shrugging, he said. "I dunno really. I think something like a hundred acres. Why?"

She tilted her head, studying him he imagined. Trying to figure him out. "Because last night, someone was murdered on your property. So now you get to tell me where you were between midnight and four this morning."

Leon stood up slowly, feeling his blood chill. The dream. It had to have something to do with the dream. On his property, on his fucking property.

He ran a hand around the back of his neck. "Jesus. I got in about two o'clock this morning. Before that I was at O'Malley's over on Bourbon Street with a buddy of mine, Kevin Ryman."

"Can anyone verify that you were there until two o'clock?"

He just looked at her. "Yeah, Ryman and everybody else in the place I'd imagine. It was my birthday party. When I left, the party was still goin'." Leon just shrugged. "The bartenders name is Tim. He'll tell you that I was there until two o'clock and when I stumbled out, I was so shit faced that I dropped trow and pissed all over Ryman's brand new Mazda."

Redfield managed to maintain a blank face through this tirade. He wondered if she was considering the fact that he seemed to be volunteering too much information. He just felt like she needed to know that he'd been drunk. He couldn't have murdered anyone. He wouldn't have.

She stared at him for a long moment before she said, "Okay. What about between two and four?"

Leon sighed. "I got in about two, fell into the shower and then collapsed into bed. I just got out of bed about fifteen minutes before you came callin'."

"Were you alone?"

"What?"

"Were you alone in bed?"

He looked at her for a long moment and then smiled. "I wasn't that drunk."

Her face flushed again and Leon couldn't help himself, he was pleased. She was doing her job but he'd have bet his right eye that she'd had an alternative reason for asking.

Leon leaned back on the railing. "Her name's Ginger Franks. She's a deputy with the 68th precinct. The same station that Ryman works in. I'm betting you'll find both of them there."

Agent Redfield nodded and scribbled in the little notebook she held in her right hand. Leon wondered if she was putting little X's through Deputy Franks name.

Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a plastic baggy that contained a Louisiana driver's license with a picture of a shiny faced blonde with overly tanned skin and blue eyes. The corner of the license was brown with old blood. The license said Marianne Beth Costas.

Leon stared at the license for a long moment. He wanted to remember the face, it was important that he remember what she had looked like. Because, deep down, he knew he was going to have to help her. He didn't know why or how yet but she was dead because of him. And the dream had been telling him that he was the only person in the darkness that could save her.

He lifted his eyes, met those of Special Agent Valentine and said, "Who is she?"

"She's the dead girl, Mr. Kennedy."

"I got that. I mean, who is she?"

"She's the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Enrique Costas. They are the owners of the Costas Air Travel Agency. She was eighteen, pretty and Harvard bound. Now she's dead, on your property and I'm going to find out why." There was something on her face, something determined that made Leon realize that maybe, just maybe she didn't think he was responsible.

But the cop in her wouldn't let her ignore the facts. Marianne Costas was dead and unless Ginger would back his story that she'd spent those few hours with him (debatable as he'd pretty much passed out in the middle of anything exciting and she'd been after him for months) he was about to become the number one suspect.

Leon sighed and looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was rising steadily now and the softness that came with early morning was fading. From the heaviness of the air, Leon was betting it was going to be a scorcher.

Agent Redfield intoned quietly. "Stay available, Mr. Kennedy. And stay in the area."

"I know the drill."

"Good. Have a nice day. I'll be in touch." She turned and opened the screen door, slipping down the steps. Apparently she was going to walk back around the house to her car.

Leon watched her go and wondered if he'd see the inside of a jail cell before night fall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day One:**

**Chapter Two:**

* * *

_"The Face of Death struck fear in me and so I tried to run._

_A chase! With glee it clapped it hands! I so do love the fun!_

* * *

Claire pulled over a mile down the dirt road that had lead to that little shack at the edge of the bayou. Her heart was still racing, her palms were sweaty. It was one the reasons she hadn't offered to shake hands upon departure.

She laid her head back against the head rest and licked her lips.

It had been too long. That was all; it had been too long since she'd been with a man.

She was the joke of the office really. Saint Redfield, Chaste Claire, the woman made out of steel. The only one who never even thought about sex; let alone partake of such sin.

She wanted them to see her that way. It made things so much easier. The men respected her, the women admired her. She was, if not liked, looked up to by quite a few other Agents in the Bureau.

She was the straight arrow. She never wavered, never faltered and always, always did her job. She never got too close, never went too far, never tested the limits. And yet, in about five minutes, had managed to (mentally) cross every boundary she had ever set for herself.

All for the sight of a small, ragged blue towel, a well defined, dewy torso and a face likely carved by angels (or devils.)

She was fairly certain she'd handled herself professionally, at least mostly so. But he was a man, and likely picked up on every moment of discomfort she'd felt in his presence. It was clear that he knew he'd affected her in a distinctly masculine way. He'd smiled, he'd posed, and he'd all but winked at her. But, then again, it was possible that was her own interest talking and he'd simply been his own charming self, treating her as he would any member of the opposite sex.

There was no doubt that Leon Kennedy was a flirt. She'd known that much about him before she'd even walked up the porch to his front door. She'd even known that he was handsome, having studied his case file and seen the picture on the bio in his file folder more than once. But the picture hadn't prepared her for the man. The only word she could think of to describe him was charisma. The man was loaded down with charisma and (quite obviously) knew how to use it.

Claire slid her hands over the wheel, a comfort gesture. She was being ridiculous really. He hadn't been interested in her, not in the slightest. Not like it would have made a difference anyway even if he'd gotten down on one knee and proclaimed his all consuming love for her. He was a suspect and she was a straight arrow. She wouldn't stray. No way.

She was fairly certain he'd never seen Marianne Costas before. The moment he'd seen her picture, there'd been blankness in his eyes, confusion. Claire was the best Agent she knew at reading body language. His shoulders had tightened but she was betting that was just because it was suddenly real, no longer just her word.

She pressed her foot back on the gas and eased out onto the road, driving slowly and carefully. She had to get herself together. She had people to interview.

Logically, she knew she should swing by O'Malley's, check on the first of his alibi. By she found herself making a right onto the highway instead. Apparently, she was going to the 68th precinct and was going to pay a visit to a certain Deputy.

It wasn't jealousy. For god's sake she'd only just met the man. It was just good detective work. Just good detective work that's all. (Right.)

The 68th precinct was a dirty grey building wedged between a donut shop and an athletic store. It was sort of like the oldest cop joke in the book. All they had to do was walk next door and they'd have all the fat and carbs their little hearts desired.

Claire slid out of the unmarked black sedan and strode across the parking lot, past two rather beat up cruisers and up the stone steps to the front doors of the building. Inside the lobby, a woman of loose morals (a prostitute) sat handcuffed to a steel bar on a ratty looking bench in front of the counter.

She cast a look at Claire as she came through the door, one that quite obviously was meant to be degrading.

Claire ignored her and walked toward the counter to a rather loudly stated, "Oink."

The man at the desk, a portly fellow with graying hair and a well tended moustache, said blandly, "Lucinda, knock it off, would ya?" He flashed a smile at Claire and she took the time to read his badge. Fricker.

"What can I help ya with ma'am?"

She pushed her jacket to the side and unclipped her shield, placing it on the counter. "Special Agent Redfield, F.B.I. I need to see Detective Ryman and Deputy Franks."

Officer Fricker's smile faded. He looked like he was going to say something less then accommodating when a voice called, "Officer Fricker, be so kind as to let the Agent through."

Claire turned her eyes to study the man who'd spoken. He was tall, incredibly handsome, and had just a little suggestion of muscle gone to fat around his middle and through his cowboy weathered face. His hair waved brilliant, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and reminded her of Clint Eastwood. She kept hearing Dirty Harry in her head as she looked at him. His eyes, surprisingly pretty, were a soft shade of blue and sat above a slightly crooked nose and small mouth surrounded by a dark five o'clock shadow. Since it was barely six a.m. she was assuming he probably had the shadow all the time.

He was dressed in a pair of slight rumpled mud brown slacks and a shirt that couldn't really be called any other color then pink. His tie, dark green with Christmas trees all over it, told her he'd probably dressed in the dark before coming into work that morning. There was a shield clipped to his belt that looked shiny and out of place against such a sad wardrobe.

She smiled and said, "Detective Ryman?"

"Yep. Why don't you come on back? I'll have Officer Simms over here get us some coffee." He turned to a fresh faced looking rookie who was no doubt straight out of the academy and said, "Simms, see if you can find Franks while you're at it."

Officer Simms nodded eagerly, puffed up his chest with importance and surprisingly didn't trip on himself in his effort to do Ryman's bidding.

Claire opened the gate leading back into the inner sanctum and walked toward the office that Ryman was currently standing in front of.

They shook hands (hers was dry by now) and he escorted her with a hand on the back through the door into his cramped, but somehow charming, office.

He cleared a few books off a rather plush looking chair and gestured for her to have a seat. After she did, he rounded the rickety old desk and sat down himself. The chair groaned under the assault.

He managed to smile, (which made him seem almost charmingly suave) and said. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled and took out her notebook. "Were you at O'Malley's Pub between the hours of midnight and four a.m. last night?"

For a moment, Ryman just sat there, shocked. Then he said, "Uh, yeah. Actually. Can I ask why you want to know?"

"Well, obviously someone's dead Detective." She smiled when she said it. See? Just a harmless question with a serious outcome.

Ryman's smile faltered, "Right. Yeah I was at the pub from about ten until about four this morning."

"Were you there with –"She looked down at the notebook pretending to check the name, although she damn well knew it. "A Mr. Leon Kennedy?" And she really hated that her belly clenched on his stupid name. What a dumb name. Like a ridiculous video game character. Or a Harlequin Romance novel hero. Stupid name. Kennedy. Stupid. (Right.)

Ryman managed not to look surprised this time. He had on his cop face now. "Yeah. It was his birthday."

"What time did Mr. Kennedy leave the pub?"

"About a quarter to two I think."

"Was he alone when he left?"

Ryman couldn't keep the scorn off his face now. "No. He was with Deputy Franks. Though I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

"Just corroborating the story, Detective. That's my job."

"Right. Anyway, he was wasted, he left with Franks."

"Do you know where he went after he left the pub?"

Ryman leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Can't say I do. Although I'd assume after he pissed all over my car, he probably took Franks back to his place."

Claire nodded and opened her mouth to ask something else when the office door opened and a perfectly coiffed head poked through.

"Detective? Simms said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, Franks. Come on in." Ryman gestured and Jill watched Officer Franks walk through the door.

She was pretty much what Claire had been expecting. She was all boobs and slender lines from head to foot. Her hair, a very dark blonde (probably fake), was pulled back into a high ponytail with swishy little tail. She looked rested, her make up was perfect and her face was something that struck a little too close to Blake Lively for Claire's taste.

"This is Special Agent Redfield from the F.B.I. She has a few questions she'd like to ask you."

Franks' eyebrows lifted and she turned her gaze to Claire as if noticing her for the first time.

After a moment of studying each other, Claire said, "Officer Franks. Where were you between the hours of two and four a.m. last night?"

Franks' face pinked, just the slightest bit. She said, quite softly, "I…um…I don't really think…"

"Franks, just tell the Agent where you were." Ryman's voice was tired.

"I was with…a friend."

Claire's smile was harsh. "The name of this friend is…?"

"Kennedy. Leon S. Kennedy."

S. Kennedy. S for stupid, clearly. Stupid name. S for son of satan. Or maybe S for sexual deviant. S for seriously likes to fuck. Or S for seeking female fuck buddy. Or S for -Claire coughed to cover her own clearly wandering mind.

Claire nodded. "I see. And what time did you leave Mr. Kennedy's this morning?"

Franks managed to look embarrassed. "I think it was about a quarter to four."

"Did Mr. Kennedy leave your presence at any time between the time you arrived at his house and the time you left?"

Franks fidgeted a little bit. "Well, he uh took a shower for about ten minutes after we got there."

"And then?"

"Is this really necessary?" Ryman was looking positively ill at the thought of hearing intimate details.

Claire said, quite calmly, "Every detail helps, Detective. You know that. Officer?"

"And then we uh…we were intimate with each other for about fifteen minutes and he well…he uh fell asleep."

Ryman''s face went purple. He looked like he might swallow his tongue. The thrill of happiness on his face was nearly enough to make Claire laugh. Nearly. She kept it in, but it was close."Oh man…" And then, he couldn't hide the smile. "Fifteen minutes…" He snickered under his breath. "I always knew it."

Claire managed to hold in her laugh. "Okay. Did he leave or exit the bed again before you left?"

"No. He was passed out like the dead." Franks looked a little disappointed by that. But she giggled. Claire didn't want to make snap judgments here, but it was hard to hate this girl. She was clearly good natured...and clearly as dumb as she was charming with it. "I tried to sleep but I couldn't. So I turned on the light in the bedroom and read for awhile. Then about 3:30 I got dressed and had a muffin and left about a quarter to four."

"Okay." Claire stood slowly and smiled, complacently. "Alright then. That's about all I have for now. Detective Ryman, Officer Franks. Thank you for your time. Please stay available in case I have any more questions."

Franks nodded. Ryman said, "Hey, is Leon in some kind of trouble? Besides being a two pump chump, of course."

Claire looked at him for a moment and light dawned on his face.

"This is about that girl, that Costas girl. They found her body on the edge of his property. You don't think…Leon wouldn't…no way…" Ryman shook his head, shocked.

Frank's managed to look oblivious. Though Claire figured it wasn't that hard of a look for her.

Claire sighed. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

She walked out of the precinct and was headed down the stone steps when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and looked up to see Leon S. (Slut man?) Kennedy swing himself between two cruisers and kill the engine.

She stopped, gathered herself and walked toward him as he dismounted. He was dressed in the outfit she'd left him in save for the addition of cranberry colored t-shirt that he'd thrown over the tank top she remembered. The shirt read "When he fuck me good, I take his ass to Red Lobster" in bold white letters across the chest with a picture of a lobster in the center. The sunglasses on his face were wrap around and polarized orange.

She stopped a foot from him and smiled. "Mr. Kennedy."

"Agent Redfield."

"That shirt is utterly offensive."

He grinned a little and shrugged, sheepishly, "You don't like Red Lobster?"

Claire laughed, lightly. "Not anymore. You ruined it for me."

"I certainly don't like offending the ladies. You want me to take it off instead?"

Yep. S for shirtless sex god. Yep. She narrowed her eyes at him. He looked like a charming thing standing there grinning and unflappable. She kinda wanted to kick him. She kinda wanted to rip off his shirt making monkey sounds and eat him.

Amused, she had to laugh at herself. Best to focus on what she did best: WORK.

She shook her head, "It's illegal to ride without a motorcycle helmet in Louisiana."

He managed to look sheepish. "Well, I think I lost my helmet."

"Right. Try to find that, would you? I'd hate to see such a pretty face smooshed all over the road somewhere." She started walking since she was unable to stay in his presence for too long without that intense pressure in her chest.

"Uh, hey."

She turned back, one eyebrow lifted. He had both hands tucked into his back pockets which...made his chest look like something you should sculpt and put in a courtyard somewhere for girls to giggle at while they sat by a fountain.

"I didn't do anything." He sounded earnest about it. He was still charming, sure, but there was an edge to his tone now that held her interest. No flirting. Just truth.

Weird thing was? She kinda believed him.

She tilted her head, studying him. "Both the detective and the officer corroborated your alibi."

"Does that mean I'm off the hook?"

"Not yet. It just means you're a little looser on it now."

He smiled, just a little lift of the mouth but it was enough to start her heart beating hard.

"Well, good to know." He took a step toward her. "Where you from, Agent Redfield?"

She barely managed not to take a step back. "Raccoon City."

"Ah, east coast. Shit, me too. Small world huh? I wondered about that accent."

She thought it was an odd comment from someone whose accent was so obviously southern. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn't have an accent at all. He had been living in Louisiana long enough now to sound like a native.

"You ever been to N'Orleans before?" There it was, she thought, that lilt. Interesting.

She studied him for a moment. "Can't say I have."

"What do you think so far?"

"It's hot and there are a lot of bugs."

His smile lifted, dangerously close to a grin. "That all?"

"I haven't exactly had time to sight see, Mr. Kennedy."

"Leon."

"Mr. Kennedy." She smiled.

"What? No first names with suspects?"

"Something like that."

His teeth were very white and very straight. "Well, I won't be a suspect f'eva."

It was the accent. It had to be. She was charmed by that old southern boy charm. He wasn't. Hadn't he said he came from Raccoon? They all had it seemed. Wasn't Ryman an RC native as well? They'd left Raccoon, according to her data, in what – 98? The same year her brother Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine had graduated the Academy and gone to join the Bureau.

"We'll see..." She paused, considering him, "You lived here long?"

He grinned a little, "Feels like all my life sometimes. I bought the old Baker Plantation a few years back when the family had that incident and ended up dead."

She remembered it, vaguely. Something to do with a mass murder. A brave, or weird, fellow to buy a plantation laced with ghosts and bad juju. But this New Orleans, the bad juju here was legendary. Wasn't she staying in a house once reportedly owned by Marie Laveau?

Claire laughed, lightly, "You like ghosts, Mr. Kennedy?"

"...I like alot of things actually. And I love a good mystery."

She knew that too. He was good at what he did. A bit of a paranormal Indiana Jones, he had free reign to chase down weirdos and whackos and ghosts. He was the guy who published journals and reports on yetis and banshees, vampires and werewolves, nagas and Sphinxs. If it was chuckled about in polite company, Leon Kennedy was investigating it. The weird part? Most of the time what he discovered and reported could be verified. So he wasn't crazy.

He was just simultaneously the best in his field...and maybe the only one in it. So, it was pretty easy to be the best. He did had a weird little nerdy guy as a sidekick...what was his name? Quint...something. He was the Q to his proverbial Bond. Always inventing weird gadgets for catching ghouls and witches and such. Claire was curious to meet him.

Claire was curious to see the paranormal James Bond at work, actually, she just needed to clear him of killing girls on his property first.

And she'd been staring for too long, it seemed, since he was now highly amused with her.

"Last time a woman stared at me this long, I was in the third grade and had farted on her during square dancing."

Claire couldn't stop the laugh now, "...you're not as charming as you think you are, sir."

He grinned with that boyish lopsided charm. "...I kinda think I might be. Get lunch with me. Be rebel."

She kinda wanted to say yes.

So naturally? She smiled again and turned to walk to her car. "No. Good bye, Mr. Kennedy."

"Why don't you let me show you the town?"

She froze.

"Ya know. The hotspots. The night life." He poked his head around her shoulder. "Jackson Square, the Café du Monde. I'll take ya on the bike up by Lake Pontchartrain. We've got some real interestin' places down here."

She turned back to him. "Mr. Kennedy. I refuse to call you by your first name. What makes you think I would possibly even consider a date with you?"

He wagged his finger. "Not a date. A tour. Think of me like your down home, former east coast, currently native tour guide."

She felt her smile lift again. "Good bye Mr. Kennedy. I have a job to do."

"Tell me you'll think about it."

She laughed, unable to stop herself.

"Come on. Just say you'll think about it."

"It would be a lie."

"I can live with that."

"Okay. I'll think about it."

She left him smiling at her and for the life of her, couldn't figure out why she knew, deep down, that it hadn't been a lie at all.

For now? She had to the crime scene...charming paranormal Indiana Jones or not...there was still a dead girl on his property. And he was a guy who bought the bayou version of a hell house, spent his days tracking nightmares, and his nights in bed with bimbos (which had...no relevance whatsoever on the murder...but she was sure hung up on the image of it...damnit.)

Either way? He was at the top of her watch list. She would NOT be slumming around the south with him on some kind of tour. No.

She didn't a rat's ass how adorable his sexy little smile was.

She was NOT going to fuck him so good he took her to Red Lobster...today. At least not today.

Out loud, Claire scoffed, "EVER. Not ever...idiot."

And she was still shaking her head as she angled the ugly sedan toward the crime scene.

* * *

**Post Note:** _Sorry if you catch typos in here or any mistakenly typed Jill's where it should be Claire. Obviously, I write WAY too much Jill with Leon. I catch myself automatically putting her name down as I write. Mega fail._


	4. Chapter 4

**_ A/N:  _ ** _I love a good murder mystery. Even more, I love the southern set up for it allowing me to include the Baker Plantation as the basis for my tale here. Heavily inspired by Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and even Agatha Christie for pacing as this progresses in terms of tone and concept, I hope to play around with familiar faces in an AU world. I actually have several concepts for this version of Leon laid out if this story does what I want._

_If you aren't a fan of murder mystery, voodoo, the New Orleans culture I'm bringing or the concept of Claire and Leon as an alternate version of Mulder and Scully, this is probably not where the wind blows you. I'll try to keep everybody as in character as possible, personality wise, while playing with a world linked to but not directly related to BioTerror. Thank you, as always for reading, and take a look at post notes for referenced works within this chapter. All are great resources for voodoo._

**Day** **One:**

**Chapter Three:**

* * *

_"And from the dark the voices sang - oh merrily and well,  
_

_A generous and fearful thing - a symphony from hell-"_

* * *

The wavering heat turned the air into a wet shimmer. Where you walked, your feet sank into the soggy sand beneath you.

The bayou was ripe with bugs and fetid water and rich plant life. A bayou, often mistakenly thought to simply be a swamp, was actually taken from a Cajun French term of similar distinction. It was typically a low-lying body of water found in flat areas and adjacent to either extremely negligently flowing rivers or marshy lakes and wetlands. It was often, as well, used to describe a creek that changes directions daily with the tide while maintaining brackish water perfect for fish life and plankton. Bayous were often boggy and stagnant and filled with all the good things found in quaint Cajun cooking: crawfish, shrimp, shellfish and catish. Snakes and leeches were often found in the murky waters and plenty of turtles and gators and crocs.

Often, the plethora of natural predators made it a frequent spot to dump a body. Nature had a way of cleaning up the mess left behind after a sloppy kill.

Kennedy's property encompassed such a huge expanse of land that pinning the murder of Costas on him was simply a matter of having no one better. What was circumstantial about all of it? This wasn't the first murder like this. The reason the FBI was here was really quite simple: Marianne Costas was the grand daughter of an important man. She was also the third in a series of similar murders crossing state lines.

When things went multi-state, homicide became a federal issue. Usually, something this minor - a series of seemingly unconnected murders, wouldn't even have fallen in the same column as being linked but for one very, very distinctive link: voodoo.

No study of ghostly tales or strangeness in New Orleans would be complete without mention of Marie Laveau, the unchallenged "Queen of Voodoo" in New Orleans. This mystical religion was as big a tourist interest in New Orleans as jazz, Cajun food and Mardi Gras. Laveau, often rumored to be either immortal or having been reincarnated into the daughter of a daughter of a daughter, was never far from being linked to anything remotely similar to voodoo practice in the south.

The layman assumed all voodoo was dark magic and that all voodoo was the same when, in fact, there were so many sects of it, in practice and across the globe, that pinpointing the certain kind you were chasing could take days and weeks and meant sitting in countless lecture halls learning from the nerds who studied it.

Claire had spent many a lovely day in dusty amphitheaters from Harvard to Tulane learning everything about what she was hunting here. She paced the crime scene in her simple suit, studying the blood stains and the left over chicken feathers, the scales of the snakes, the symbols on the trees and what was left of the circle they'd made upon the ground. She went over the details in her head as she knelt, paying close attention to the details of the etchings still left in the soggy sand.

The first body had been graced with  **gris-gris -** or a small cloth sack filled with "magic". Gris-gris, pronounced _gree-gree_ , would take a range of forms, with some practitioners including minerals, roots, herbs, seals written on paper, and even graveyard dust into a small bag to be placed on the body of the person they were made for. There were many purposes for them - from love to loss to wealth and prosperity. But some were made, as well, to court evil (*1*).

The one found on the victim before Costas had led her to believe this voodoo was Louisiana in origin. This gris-gris had contained graveyard dust from  **Lafayette Cemetery No. 1**. The connection was still loose on why and what and where. Was it an homage to the victim? To the killer? To someone buried there? It was impossible to know without digging deeper into the voodoo behind the death (*2*).

Slave ships from West Africa first brought Voodoo to Louisiana. Practitioners knew which plants and herbs could heal and which could bring about hallucinations, sickness, and death.

Louisiana Voodoo, also known as New Orleans Voodoo, described a set of spiritual folkways developed from the traditions of the African diaspora. It is a cultural form of the Afro-American religions developed by West and Central Africans populations of the U.S. state of Louisiana. Voodoo was one of many incarnations of African-based spiritual folkways rooted in West African  _Dahomeyan Vodun_. Its liturgical language was Louisiana Creole French.

Voodoo became synchronized with the Catholic and Francophone culture of New Orleans as a result of the African cultural oppression in the region resulting from the Atlantic slave trade. Louisiana Voodoo was often confused with—but not completely separable from—Haitian Vodou and Deep Southern Hoodoo. It differed from Haitian Vodou in its emphasis upon gris-gris, Voodoo queens, use of Hoodoo paraphernalia, and Li Grand Zombi. It was through Louisiana Voodoo that such terms as gris-gris and Voodoo dolls were introduced into the American lexicon (*3*). Now any urban dictionary in the world would host a variety of plays on the meaning behind the words. Hell - gift shops dealt in the trade of voodoo with apparent aplomb and majesty, offering Laveau and her craft up to the world like a goddess of her own faith.

Voodoo, the true practice of it, was hard to discern from the butchery of the bastardized american version of it among those who studied the occult and the fantastic.

Claire Redfield was rapidly becoming a leading authority on Voodoo. She'd taken the scholars path to learn it. She'd never spent more time than tits deep in literature in the library; at seminars and lectures, at the knee of some "expert." She was obsessed and it was culminating quickly for her here in this pitiful swamp.

Costas' body had possessed a gris-gris around her savaged neck. Inside the little bag was all manner of bad luck juju - including a dried lizard, a rooster's heart and the little finger of a person who, Claire discovered upon running the prints, had committed suicide. Costas was being cursed.

The question was why?

What and who had she known and what connection did she have to two other college girls in New York and Florida? What was the killer doing crossing state lines? Did it originate here, in the hotbed of the home of the greatest voodoo practioner of all time? If so, why the wrong cemetary? And what was the connection to Laveau and the gris-gris on the victims?

Was it all circumstantial?

And what was the connection to Kennedy? Was it, again, just situational? He'd bought a property that had been the center of a mystery involving alot of unsolved deaths and a lot of murky cover up. He was, again, the Indiana Jones of weird - so the purchase wasn't all that surprising. She was betting Doctor Strange was enjoying the hell out of a possibly haunted stomping ground. But what did it mean that Costas was found on land that was, allegedly, stained in the blood of those known as "hornless goats" - or human sacrifices?

Nothing. Again. Maybe. Maybe nothing.

Maybe a fantastic cover. Maybe he was a killer pretending to be a hero. Maybe he was murdering people because exploring all the freaks in the world had turned him into a one himself. Maybe his perfect body was spending it's nights in a mask made from the skin of an animal while he sacrificed virgins to the loa for power.

She stopped, picturing it - and it just didn't wash. It was stupid, entirely, to use instinct to judge a man. It was. But she felt wrong about it. It felt wrong to picture him slaughtering women. She knew, through researching him, that he was a killer. That part was true. Before he'd become the Doctor of Strange Shit, he'd been a pretty bad ass up and comer. He'd retired, unceremoniously, from the field without an explanation. The files were all sealed up and protected. Why? Why leave at the height of a promising career?

Lots of questions.

No answers.

She jotted in her notebook, copying down the symbols she could make out in the bloody sand. It was a veve, clearly, a representation of whatever loa had been the heart of this ritual where Costas had been sacrificed. In the others, no same loa had been used. This one, as well, was different. It would take some digging to find out which one.

She snapped pictures with her phone and logged. She jotted a sketch of it in her notebook.

She was penning down her thoughts on the feathers and the left over candles and positioning of the chalk outline from Costas body when the voice had her jumping in the air.

"...Baron Samedi."

Claire dropped her pen and squeaked.

She glanced up to find Leon Kennedy standing over her shoulder. He wasn't looking charming or flirtatious or adorable, he looked a little concerned. He looked, somehow, reflective. She watched his face as he crouched beside her. He picked up her pen and gestured to the symbol as he spoke.

"Baron Samedi is the loa of sex and resurrection. He's the white faced guy in the top hat you see in all the gift shops. He stands at the crossroads, where the souls of dead humans pass on their way to the underworld. He digs your grave and meets your risen soul to guide you to the darkness. As well as being the all-knowing loa of death, he is a sexual loa, frequently represented by phallic symbols. He is noted for disruption, obscenity, debauchery, and for having a particular fondness for tobacco and fucking."

Claire watched his face, enraptured by the flashing intelligence there. Was that the kicker here? Was it the brains under the beauty?

She followed the line of the pen as he gestured to it. "He is notorious for his outrageous behavior, swearing continuously and making filthy jokes to the other spirits. He loves smoking and drinking and is rarely seen without a cigar in his mouth or a glass of rum in his bony fingers."

Claire studied the veve as he connected the pieces in the bloody sand. She watched the whole of it start to emerge. It was clearly a gesture of a joke played at Christianity as it started to form a cross in the connotation of it. And she asked, softly, "Why him? Why that loa?"

Kennedy laughed, but there was no humor on his face, "I don't know. But it's interesting. And a little scary."

"Why?"

He glanced at her face and shook his head, sighing, "The running joke down here is that I'm always channeling Samedi. Flirting, fucking girls, drinking and smoking - straddling life and death with what I do. The bad language, the messing around, the perpetual Peter Pan syndrome..."

"The bad boy of loas?"

He laughed a little, lightly, "Apparently."

"Why would someone aim this at you, Mr. Kennedy? You fuck the wrong guys wife?"

He lifted a brow, volleying his gaze over her pretty face. Nothing on it that said she was implying. She was just asking. It was her job to ask questions after all.

He'd made a career out of asking them.

So he answered her, "Not recently. But I rub people wrong in my business, Agent Redfield. All the time. I debunk the fakers, I expose the liars, I reveal the truth. It doesn't make me popular. And I'm not the poster child for chastity or good behavior. I am, however, honest about who I am."

"And who's that?"

He glanced at her mouth and back at her face, " A guy who likes a good mystery, a stiff drink, and a willing woman."

Yep, Claire thought, sounded about right. But there was something refreshing about the honesty of it. He was charming because he was, literally, not hiding anything.

And so she asked, "You wanna tell me about your enemies?"

He tilted his head a little, looking at her, "Not yet. You accusing me?"

She laughed, shaking her head, "Not yet. The day isn't over though, Mr. Kennedy."

"...story of my life."

His voice trailed off. He glanced back at her face. What was interesting? She didn't appear to be judging him. She was thinking. Like he was thinking. And they were both thinking the same thing: it was either a stab at him here - or a really scary coincidence.

And it wasn't helping him look innocent.

He held her gaze for a long moment and finally, intoned, "I didn't kill her."

Claire said nothing.

And finally? She mused, "Why do you sound so unsure about that?"

Somewhere, a yellow billed cuckoo set up a musical cry. It punctuated their stare down. Kennedy responded, softly, "If you think I did it, why haven't you arrested me?"

"...because I don't know what I think. And I can't prove anything. If you didn't kill her, why are you here?"

He held her gaze, unflinching. "To find out who did."

Sweat slid over his brow. It lingered at his left eye and trembled in the heavy hair of his left eyebrow. She watched it, waited, and it slid toward his eye. Her hand shot out and slid over it, flicking it away.

He jerked when she touched him, amusing her. Claire said, softly, "It would have burned if it got in your eye."

He lifted a brow and his mouth twitched, "My hero."

They were really too close, Claire thought fuzzily, they really were. Crouched together in the boiling heat with maybe a foot between them. Too close. But she didn't back off. She felt her glasses get a little foggy in the muggy air looking at him...but she didn't back off.

Interesting.

And very telling for her. One thing she knew? He was the first person she'd met here with knowledge of this loa on the ground and she needed to know what he knew. As of now? He wasn't just a suspect - he was an expert consultant.

She opened her notebook and took out the photo. It was Costas, a crime scene photo, clearly. It showed the pretty girl in the license from before but she wasn't pretty anymore. She was naked and disemboweled. She lay on an altar of some kind, surrounded by the chalk and the powder and the feathers of the chickens. She was flecked in blood that was likely not hers, and coated in the pool of her own from when she'd died. She'd died painfully, probably bound and afraid, and bleeding to death before they'd taken her heart.

It was carved, carefully and brutally, from her chest.

Claire said, quietly, "The heart was missing as well as the intestines. What's the symbolism of that in relation to Samedi?"

Leon studied the photo, the imagery, and the feeling of it. It hurt him. Why? Why did it coil snakes of fear and pain in his guts? Was it the dreams? Was it the nightmares?

Why fear them?

He'd had them all his life.

"First guess?"

Claire nodded, "Sure. First guess."

"Sorcery of some kind." He considered it and the context of the girl and the missing pieces of her, "Sorcery is within the power of Baron and the spirits of the Geude Family which he heads. The efficacy of evil spirits and magic poisons depends on him. If he declines the ritual calling for him, for instance, invocations and rites...they're useless. They took her heart - why? I can't answer that for you. But it was an offering. The question is - what were they offering it for?"

Claire met his eyes over the photo. She said nothing again, studying him like a suspect in an interrogation, "You tell me."

He shook his head, face cool and collected, "I don't know. I wish I did."

She considered things and went with her gut here, "...it wasn't Samedi at the other murders."

There. THERE. That's what she'd been fishing for. That reaction. He flinched around the eyes. He looked sick. He looked a little angry. And he said, "There were others?"

She nodded, watching him quietly, "Two. Both in heavy Haitian populated cities. That's why I'm here. That's what makes this Federal territory Mr. Kennedy. It's all connected. The thing I need to find out, is what connects them."

He watched a bead of sweat slide down her nose in the murky summer heat. "Who were the other two?"

Claire said, gently, "A coed at NYU. And a waitress in Miami."

Kennedy studied the photo again, brow furrowed, "No connection with the status of them?"

Claire shook her head, "The coed was straight A's, good girl type - boyfriend was a highschool sweetheart. Daddy was a preacher. The waitress ran with the wrong crowd in Little Haiti, she wasn't on the best of terms with her single mother who frequented lock up and left her pretty shitty poverty most of her life. There's no connection I can find between them. None. But for the fucking gris-gris and the way they died. Even the loas are different."

Leon looked up at her, head tilted, "So why are they connected? Voodoo happens. You said yourself, it's heavily Haitian - the areas where you find them. So that's reasonable for voodoo. So why the same killer? Where's the proof?"

Claire tossed the gris-gris in her hand between them. It landed on his boot. He picked up the little leather pouch and studied it. It had symbols carved into it. Inside, it had herbs and various pieces of bone and dust.

He lifted his brwos at her.

And she said, "The dust is from the Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. The symbolism of the gris-gris is classic Laveau. The problem with that?"

Leon filled in the answer, "She wasn't buried there."

"Right. Marie Laveau is generally believed to have been buried in plot 347, the Glapion family crypt in  **Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1** **.** "

Leon shrugged a little, considering it, "It's all speculation, Agent Redfield. No one can prove that."

"Right." She sighed, dramatically, "But clearly the killer has a connection to Lafayette. Why? I need to find the link."

Leon rolled the gris-gris in his hand. He studied her. She studied him in return. Finally, he mused, "I can help you."

She'd considered that too. She knew he was the best suspect she had. She knew she felt, in her guts, that he was innocent. She knew, she couldn't prove it either way. She also knew he was the fucking best at what he did.

And so she replied, "We need to track the family of the bones in that bag. The first gris-gris had bones from a source I couldn't identify. The second body is still processing...but it's gonna come up the same as this one."

He tilted his head at her, "Why?"

"It will. The first one...it was processed before the prints were in the system. I guarantee it. When I rerun it, it's gonna come up the suicide. The same suicide. The same one. Why the same person? The answer starts there. I can feel it."

Kennedy nodded and rose. She stood as well and took the gris-gris he handed back to her.

He said, quietly, "I'll get in touch with my guy to find us some sources for local voodoo. My suggestion? You get in touch with Ryman to start hunting up info on the suicide."

He moved through the boggy marsh and Claire called after him, gently, "What about the cemetary?"

He turned back, smiling wryly and paced backward, watching her, "What else? I'll see you there tonight. How about a little twilight grave walking, Agent Redfield? I promised you the real N'Orleans. What better way to kick off the grand tour than a little sojourn with the dead?"

He winked. He turned.

She watched his ass in those faded jeans as he moved back through the swamp toward his motorcycle.

And finally, she called after him, forgetting the one important thing she'd let slip this whole time, "Hey!"

He turned back, threw his leg over his bike and cocked his head at her.

She called, hands on her hips, "How the hell did you find the location of a restricted crime scene!?"

He laughed. He shrugged. And he gunned the engine on his bike.

With a chuckle, he called, "What can I say? That's the other thing about N'Orleans you'll get used to."

She tilted her head at him, "What's that?"

"What else,  _chere?_ Magic."

Claire watched him zip off into the dying sun. She sighed, shaking her head. Magic.

She didn't believe in magic. She didn't believe in conjuring ancient voodoo loa either.

But she was letting a suspect into her case to help her. She was letting big blue eyes and killer cheekbones distract her from flawless purpose here. She was eager to stand around with him and find out what he knew.

It was the case. Sure. But it was him.

She didn't believe in magic.

But she was rapidly coming to believe in the power of Leon Kennedy.

* * *

**Post Note:**

_*1*. The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook - by Kenaz Filan_

_*2*._ _Charms, Spells, and Formulas: For the Making and Use of Gris Gris Bags, Herb Candles, Doll Magic, Incenses, Oils, and Powders-_ _by Ray T. Malbrough_

_*3*. The Mystica_


End file.
